As years go, 1771 was not particularly memorable. Something, however, occurred that year which might also have been forgotten had it not involved one of the world’s great works of art. It happened in the lovely town of Siena, by then a sleepy provincial center in the Grand Duchy of Tuscany. On one of the side altars of the magnificent gothic cathedral, built five centuries earlier at the height of the city’s wealth and splendor, was a painted and gilded altarpiece, exceptional for its immense size, beauty, and historic significance. Called Maestà, the central image pictured the Virgin and Child enthroned in majesty (maestà in Italian), surrounded by a teeming court of angels and saints—unmistakably the Queen of Heaven. The rest of the huge retable was studded with a profusion of scenes, large and small, illustrating the entire Christological cycle. This otherworldly vision was completed by a flamboyant frame embellished with all manner of carved and gilt columns, moldings, and finials.

It was, without doubt, one of the grandest and most ambitious artistic undertakings of the late middle ages. Alas, in that rather unremarkable year 1771, it was willfully and ruthlessly cut to pieces. To understand the barbarity of the event, one must imagine a saw being run down the middle of the extraordinary double-sided painting’s thickness! Adding to the tragic ignominy, the tool’s teeth exited precisely across the Virgin’s face, leaving a ghastly scar on an image that had not only been venerated for